The White Horse Inn, Act III

[Kransha]

Osric, though he knew that the previous innkeeper who spoke now had not requested his oratory pamphlets, saw the opportunity to state his ploy and grabbed it without hesitation. He leapt to his feet, far too fast for a man with a useless leg, and managed to step into Bethberry’s scope of vision completely, raising a cupped hand with a sidling movement and began briskly. “Actually, Lady Bethberry, upon the matter of summer labor, I was hoping to speak to you about that subject briefly, for I have a more self-serving agenda this day.”

Her keen, deep eyes turned to him with moderate contentment, and she might have replied, but his quick wit and inner requirement spoke for him, forcing further words from his sore throat. He continued, constantly gesturing furiously for no apparent or sensible reason, though it seemed to be at least slightly effective.

“My nephew, Sigurd,” he rattled on, his speech droning but full, “has accompanied me from Aldburg to this city for a purpose unrelated to his or my enjoyment. As a boy who has now become a man, albeit a young one, I have been trying to seek employment for him. His mother assigned me the task, as she has seen too many years to gallivant across field and country searching for an occupation for her son, and I have been considering what manner of labor would be best for him. Then, as it happened, I was struck with the memory of this enchanting place and thought that it might be auspicious to find some enterprising activity for him in a place such as this, one where I could be sure amicable folk would be to educate him in life’s ways. I know not if the White Horse requires any laborers, but you, a woman of wisdom and knowledge of these lands that I lack, must know of some manner of charge I can give him that would be rooted here, in Edoras.”

Here, at last, the ancient Rohirrim paused, taking several sharp breaths and panting meagerly, his eyes that had been fixed on the uninteresting floor turned finally to Bethberry, seeing a look of polite understanding on her expression. He could not tell what her reply to his many queries would be, as her features portrayed no real emotion that he could detect. His dealing with her had been few indeed, and the last one he recalled was only a vaguely settled memory within him. Again, he did not wait to discern whether or not she would speak before diving back into his own words headfirst.

“He needs a teacher, Bethberry,” he said, now with weariness and overly obvious frustration, each syllable spouted to quickly to be considered by listener or speaker, “or rather, he needs teaching, for he is a brash youth, and has never been well schooled in his childhood. He is a stout lad, strong willed and otherwise, so he would serve for many purposes. If you could do so much as suggest a charge for him, I would be exceedingly, nay, eternally grateful. I can no longer teach the boy, nor can his mother and teachers have long lost hope for all save austere reprimand. He is not as unruly as he sounds, for he has matured and has a hearty, willing arm ready for whatever orders issued him.”

As he drew to a dazed close, he realized with some notion of confusion and horror that even he could not recall half of the things he’d uttered, for he had been preparing for this for such a time that every planned and contrived manner of speech had been fused unwholesomely into a singular mess. It was irrelevant now, though, since his end was complete. Now, he could only hope that Bethberry had words of wisdom in return. He had his reasons for such desperation, as deeply rooted as the gnarled digits of the tallest, greatest trees.

Meanwhile, as all this occurred, Sigurd had summoned up both courage and curiosity to pursue another course. Getting up more slowly from his own sturdy seat, the youth had made his way around the tables of the inn until he’d drawn near the young man who his uncle had singled out from the crowd earlier, the man he knew of only from his uncle’s heavily exaggerated tales, Hearpwine. He saw her, in fact, returning from some conversation with Maercwen. A very bare flicker of annoyance darted up in him as he considered what he might have been speaking of, but it concluded speedily as he found Hearpwine discoursing with another man.

“You are Hearpwine, the legendary bard, yes?” said Sigurd eagerly, his eyes twinkling with polite brightness reminiscent of the sly spark that glinted continually in the starry gaze of his uncle. He had interrupted one of them, which one he did not know, but he had severed one sentence nonetheless. Despite that, his excited gaze persisted as he looked upon the man.

“Indeed I am, though I would not say ‘legendary.’” Hearpwine laughed jovially, shooting a mildly apologetic look to his compatriot, Hanasían, as if he was able to speak on behalf of the inconsiderate Sigurd interrupting their conversation. “And you, you are he who was with Osric?” He extended a light-hearted hand. Sigurd’s hand, trembling foolishly, shot out to grasp Hearpwine’s and shook it vigorously.

“Yes.” He responded swiftly, “I am his nephew, Sigurd, son of Sigmund. It is a great pleasure to meet you.”